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About Literature / Student J. SteffiFemale/Unknown Group :iconinner-realms: Inner-Realms
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One Way Ticket to La La Land
Every book about biology would tell me my chest
is made of a ribcage, my bones strong
but capable of breaking.
I know that my lungs are what allow me to breathe,
and my feet that make me turn.
But no page from the memory of history would ever tell me
that music is what’ll truly make me hear
and soar
to places even my imagination could never think of.
No classroom would ever teach me
that the scent of rain would take you back
to the life of a person you could have had,
nor will a high score on a test
ever make me see the blood and the sweat
on every brushstroke of a painting.
My lungs would never run out of steam
without love to make it,
the same way my feet would never tiptoe to the stars
without prose and poetry and insanity
whispering in my head.
I am not just skin and a tangle of veins
passing for less than a millennia,
I am also fire and the eye of a storm,
the ruin of a city and the sail of a sunken ship,
I am the sound of a word in a tongue
that will exist when I am
:icondsteffi:DSteffi 6 2
Parallel Earth
I wonder what happened today on the other side of the world
or even a hundred kilometres from here
as I woke to the sound of an alarm
and an almost fully risen sun.
What thoughts did they first have
or were they still asleep—
perhaps they didn’t doze at all.
Was there a book beside their bed
about a hundred-and-fifty pages to the end
or was their lover’s arm wrapped around them instead?
What stories could be told or could have been
in the times I stared off into the wall
making out minutes that was better
than what I had.
Does the person with my name
in another timezone
think about these possibilities
as they walk alone on their way home?
Or is this one of those days
I’m left with a ‘maybe’
hanging in the balance?
:icondsteffi:DSteffi 0 0
A Year and a Lightyear
We like to think we’re thousands of miles above the core of the earth,
but some days, when we can taste rain on our tongues
and it doesn’t pour, we can feel the distance
between the tips of our fingers and the clouds;
the air in our lungs a tease.
And I remember now, that I’ve never stood in a downpour
or much less danced in one; petrichor soaking my feet.
I was always either afraid of catching a cold
or looking dumb:
a girl with bare legs
catching a portion
of the seas.

But maybe that’s why I mumble words
when you look at me, why I’m reluctant to believe
I’ve found home in a warmth that isn’t mine.
It’s staggering to think that three hundred and sixty five days can pass
without us really living.
[We’re stars, too, but I think we forgot.]
:icondsteffi:DSteffi 2 0
Footfalls of a Whisper
When you’re standing in the balance
between two breaths and euphoria,
the faintest sounds dangling by your ear,
you could feel the ground shift
just the tiniest bit,
but enough,
enough to make you fall in an abyss
lighter than the clouds you’ve never touched,
fingers saturated with wanderlust
you couldn’t begin to imagine.
The smallest hummingbird and the largest whale
long for this quickly dissipating dream
more than you and me combined,
and we dream of it too often.
It isn’t something we remember
when all the thoughts we think have gone away,
rather, it is a gust of wind against our skin
on a cold, crisp morning,
a wayward thread teased from the end of our sleeve.
It is mundane as the minutes before we’re asleep,
existent, but easily adrift.
That is why I lay its dust on your eyelids
when your secrets don’t escape your lips
and your hands are tangled in mine too tight.
This way, you won’t have to search the stars
to have my share of l
:icondsteffi:DSteffi 3 1
A Game with Lightyears
I think about all the wishes I made on every birthday cake,
on every coin I tossed in a wishing well,
on every random star I picked
whether it was shooting
or not.
How they’ve gathered through the years,
dusty with all my metaphors
and forgetfulness,
a centimetre away from completely fading.
They were like roses in full bloom—
heavy with distant breaths
and light as they scattered through the air.
But these days my wishes are simple,
thrown to clouds and flowers
that are not daffodils:
to be able to sleep without dreaming
and to wake without wanting to go back
to sleep.
The stars don’t stare at me the same way they did
as I looked for constellations, small arms
reaching into the slight glare.
Now my hands are in my pockets
and I stare back blankly,
empty of any wish.
:icondsteffi:DSteffi 5 0
Songs Souls Sing
You can’t measure the sadness in poems
the way you can’t measure love;
there is no distance between lines
that could ever justify a tear
that’s been shed out in the open
without anyone ever seeing it.
They don’t tell us anymore
that the most fragile part of us
cannot be seen, a soul running rampant
when you drink a cup of euphoria
but remains bound to your bones
as you fracture from every punch
that doesn’t touch your skin.
There are ghosts in each of us
haunting the shadows of our steps,
trapped in our skeletons,
cracking as we count the minutes
to the next time we let it loose,
or fill to the brim.
When did we start being ticking time-bombs
just waiting to go off?
To splinter in all directions
in the hope of being someplace else,
someone else, in someone else’s dream.
But maybe we should hold on
to the light of dead stars
a little longer,
they still after all
let us wish
eons after they’re long gone.
:icondsteffi:DSteffi 8 5
The Silence of Lies
Did you ever wonder how many pieces of me
you could catch in one hand?
How many regrets
and crumpled lines of poetry
I never even knew I had?
Because some days, holding myself together
feels like I’m under the ocean
with my mouth wide open,
gasping for air.
And I know there’s a sky above me,
just as blue and just as endless
that it seems near impossible for me
not to see it, but that’s what happens.
That’s what happens on the days
I can’t look you in the eye
to tell you what’s wrong,
so you find me behind the words you read
all bent and distorted,
so abstract they’re almost poetic.
You can see them dancing in the pages
of my sketchbook, in the lines of my brow,
the crease of my smile.
And I hope, the way the moon
pulls the sea to her,
that you saw them, too,
and maybe understood them,
for all those times you told me
I was going to be okay.
:icondsteffi:DSteffi 7 2
Where Shooting Stars Go
We’ve become dreamers with too much
storms on our hands and too little
space between our fingers
to let them breathe—
so much so, that the stars
we used to wish on
have moved on to better dreams,
better dreamers.
:icondsteffi:DSteffi 12 4
Stars and Clouds
Sometimes I want my feelings to have temporary amnesia—
for me to forget, on a small plea from the clock,
that they’re tangible, real,
and intertwined into my senses.
I want to be innocent and ignorant of my life for a while,
to be another person in the same body
but not trapped, not bound by the strings
in my bones I forgot I put there.
I want to be free in the sense I make of the word;
utterly adrift in the embrace of the wind
like tinder kissed by fire, made strong
by every breath.
I want these things,
want and want and want them
for the days I feel like climbing on a cloud
and disappearing, to travel the world
and the galaxy like I’m not in it,
but us as friends and lovers
and both,
completely ephemeral
but that much more everlasting.
Instead I hear my soul sigh
and feel my feet planted in the ground.
:icondsteffi:DSteffi 5 0
Warmth and Rain
He was the kind of person you don’t fall in love with
at first sight;
he was a wallflower
with all the beauty and lightness
of that meaning.
You could tell him how you loved
and hated the stars,
how they burned with all your secrets
and how great they were at keeping them
and he would understand as if he held
the universe in his palm,
not one galaxy explored,
not one galaxy his lover.
But you would say it was all right,
you don’t know what it’s like
to hold all that space, either.
He was the one you’d listen to music
in the rain with, just to feel
both sensations at once,
variability and repetition.
And at that moment, your heart would race
for the first time it felt calm.
You would fight all these rushing waves
telling you he was your friend
and soulmate,
with neither of you knowing it.
:icondsteffi:DSteffi 15 4
Pivot Point
I’m singing a song at the top of my lungs
with my lips shut;
every lyric a scream,
every chorus a silence.
And sometimes I’m lost
and sometimes I’m found,
sometimes I’m both at once—
spiralling down or dancing to the tune.
I don’t know how to control it,
the gush and ebb of my soul
like waves on a still pond,
fighting, fighting to mimic the ripples of the ocean.
I have been at both ends of the spectrum
at the same time,
trying to pull every part of me to the middle,
trying to balance the see-saw line,
to take hold of the ship’s prow
once again.
But maybe in this lies the beauty
of black and white,
of feeling something too much
or not at all,
the impulse of something unimagined,
the scribble of a soul.
:icondsteffi:DSteffi 4 1
Hello Sandman
If only I could sleep every night
with poetry on my lips,
the scent of unwritten words
clinging to my pulse, my lungs,
then perhaps I would feel the weight
of the wings
I always thought
I had.
But no one can ever be that star-kissed.
We are all both ends of the spectrum
and all the shades in between—
the unconscious version of standing
on a boundary,
two places at once,
racing thoughts
without a
stop sign.
And maybe that’s the grand plan,
for all the universe’s emotions
to be melded into one soul,
one space, one person,
for joy to be seen only in sadness
like lovers teasing,
almost touching hands.
It’s a dance on centerstage
with an audience of none.
But I’ll move anyway, I’ll flow,
and maybe in doing so
I’ll see poetry in my dreams.
:icondsteffi:DSteffi 8 2
You can’t force a novel out of someone
who’s a short story.
And yes,
everyone’s a book in their own right;
with chapters and page-breaks
and covers-
the latter most of all.
That’s why he couldn’t stay.
He had pages to write and others to read.
And he’s read you to the last punctuation,
the last hurrah,
and he got bored.
So he opened other spines
and slept in their papery scents,
with you no more than an afterthought,
the past to the present.
He wasn’t your prince charming,
or your knight,
or your childhood best friend
who falls in love with you,
he was a passing breath,
a momentary pulse,
a distant memory
you learn to write
in between the lines.
:icondsteffi:DSteffi 15 3
a mirage of paper and ink
Sometimes I feel a bit of my soul slips from me
in a way that I don’t like,
as if I were wine cupped in palms
with fingers spread too widely-
sand and stone beneath
to sip up the cheap red.
And I’m afraid I’ll forget
the parts of me I love,
the parts that keep me up, in flight,
but bound to the earth.
I’m fleeting in a non-artistic sort of way,
like smoke blending with the fog.
But maybe this my way of letting go,
of dissipating into the air,
unseen and unheard,
without completely
:icondsteffi:DSteffi 4 2
Seconds and Millennia
I may not get to see the end of time,
but the simple fact that I’m living
for a span of forever
makes me feel infinite-
where every breath is a pulse,
every thought, a dream,
and every second, a risk.
And maybe that’s all I can hope for,
and all I ever really want.
:icondsteffi:DSteffi 7 3
The words we write
engrave us upon this earth
more than any tombstone can.
:icondsteffi:DSteffi 3 0


Letter to Batman :iconptimm:PTimm 8,180 473
ten centimetres of a ribbon mind
looking someone in the eye
is like rummaging through their wrinkle-
cover journal, stinking of midnight entries
and circular blurs
of ink where the tears plinked
onto the page and the perfume of lavender
soap that they rinse their skin with,
clutching a cheap plastic pen with soft
clean hands.
it's like i'm invading on a
thick-air moment in their thoughts.
head high.
legs tripping.
hands out to catch
my fall,
wood beneath
my fingertips –
and two
on my back.
twelve years old
and finding out why
everyone looks like
a criminal
to me.
they told me novel-length stories
about unconditional
how someone could tear your lungs out and
plant a tumour in the space
left behind,
how they could breathe second-hand
smoke in
your face until your cheeks
turned to ash, how they could
craft a bleak cage for you to wilt in,
bars casting shadows across
your grey skin,
and you'd still sing with love for them,
and i didn't believe them,
i opened the book –
:iconjikivigoig:jikivigoig 7 22
1. it's been two days
and i am crumpling under
the hands of withdrawal:
shivering, i can't shut my own
thoughts up
and the days are dragging
their feet.
2. they itch when they heal
like someone's hiding in the
crests of my hips,
tickling with time-worn, coffee-stained
teeth – and i'm running on
someone else's life because there
3. is no background ache,
like there should be;
and i'm stringing together scars
with a blunt-tipped pencil,
drawing galaxies just below my
like i hold a universe somewhere
inside, seeping over the
4. when i stuff the blades
in my mouth,
they taste like cobwebs and
dust, a rhythm bouncing along my tastebuds,
knocking sensibility to
the floor –
5. even though it's only been
two days.
:iconjikivigoig:jikivigoig 7 12
Mother knew the ocean amassed every tear ever shed
Mother always told me that the most important lessons in life come accompanied by saltwater.
I always thought she was carrying a soul too spent and too sullen.
I didn't know how right she was till sometime back, at seventeen.
For it was at seventeen that I was to try through a time where paltry tears- saltwater, was all I could taste, as my world was ripped right out of my ribs, and I experienced my first heartbreak.
I was years too young to search for starfish by the shore, to wish myself an old wives tale cure, all for a classic summer sickness. His sea-foam eyes had plighted me and blighted me. He allowed my knees and ankles to burn in rock salt kisses and promises. I allowed him to sear through my wounds, past and present.
In the end, I almost lost myself to his vastness, and almost drowned in the strength of his currents.
He was far too momentous and I, too infinitesimal.
Summer ended a short-lived romance but romance it was nonetheless. Rock salt senses will always string dé
:iconsammur-amat:Sammur-amat 22 29
boy from my dreams
i had a dream last night
about a boy with stars in his eyes
who made me feel more alive than ever
and made my heart leap more than fish begging for food
he kissed me so unselfishly
and held me as if he was scared i'd break
trying to put me back together
with each kiss, hand hold, and shared sigh
'you're beautiful, every little piece darling'
his voice melted my insides and the drops
so full of joy ran out my eyes
and he kissed them all away
:iconhushed-lullabies:hushed-lullabies 31 18
skin covered hurricane
its 10pm 
and the house is quiet
but my head is not
as i click back between two tabs on my computer
fighting with myself over if its a real genuine feeling
or if its just my old self sabotage habits rising to the surface again.
"what wedding dress is right for you"
i click back to the other tab
"how to end an engagement"
and back.
and forth.
again and again.
i take a deep, long drink from my cheap ass wine that i wish was bottomless
and sigh.
:iconohsparrowsong:ohsparrowsong 4 1
recovery crawl
is kinder 
than leaving.
sometimes I wish
your last words were 
a hand against my cheek,
a fist to my chest, 
an arm around my neck,
nails on my wrist.
the ache more real
and easy 
to find. 
every night I ache and
I point all over. 
mostly my heart,
mostly my mind,
to the words stuck 
that won’t loosen 
that wedge themselves
in my teeth and fall out when
I’m drunk,
in his lap. he doesn’t need them, boy
that loves me until his
teeth rot, who says I don’t
deserve you who constricts 
my waist with his hands and who
whispers I love you before 
we fuck. he’s got courage like
the front lines of warfare, 
throwing himself into the densest dark
he’s ever felt up. thinking he can 
map it and find me waiting 
white and red on the other side.
the boy that says I love you knowing
he will gnaw the silent night
in return. who says it anyway. 
what does he do w
:iconkaitforest:KaitForest 137 17
cynical: arsenical
splinter-thorn boy,
it will all start to
d i s i n t e  g   r    a     t     e
beneath you
you are
the least beautiful way to unravel -
all maggot-rot, no
split-thread, no
ribbon-torn boy
an architect of
a god of
[away] &
there is nothing holy about you
:iconcounting-vertebrae:counting-vertebrae 106 22
to wake the dead.
would it be terribly insensitive
for me to say “good morning”
in a cemetery?
the sun lifts up slowly,
and the dead sleep in late,
as usual.
:iconlittleblueraccoon:littleblueraccoon 184 25
i like to count your ribs when you're not looking.
the hollow dips, the gentle pressure they put on your skin.
you're underweight by a few ticks of the scale,
                                                   so am i.
                      we both hate taking our medicine.
                  so my hands shake and your lungs ache,
but we just laugh it off because we're young and we have forever.
:iconvvlpes:vvlpes 26 39
this weakness
i am soft and weak.
my mother once told me
she wished she had a curvier body (while looking at mine),
but i'm only rounded edges because i hold fat that i
cannot turn to muscle;
i am weak because i am weak,
my heart is full of self pity and selfishness.
i stand in the hot shower, not wanting to
move at all because i sense no point in acting. i
stare at the fogged up glass and the condensation
dripping down the crying mirror, fat droplets, sad and heavy like i am.
lethargy dominates the bathroom, paces about the shower,
presses me against the wall and licks my bare skin with his dusk tongue.
i feel ten types of happiness, while rooted to the tile.
simealtanously, i am colored in twenty hues
of anguish, only because i deny movement (i refuse myself,
i am my own stray animal).
i am monochromatic, and weak,
and insanely, impossibly euphoric all at once:
this what heroin does to people.
i believe (it gets us killed, belief) i have a high pain tolerance,
but do i dare test that hypoth
:iconunfaithfulstars:unfaithfulstars 64 43
hell is real (i kissed him)
he tasted like sins and regret and wasted septembers and burnt-up gin
and his eyes looked at me like nightmares, i promise
this was never a migraine for the insane nor was this me at midnight,
all curled up against the mirror sobbing a spiraling hymn.
i say, hell is real, i’ve felt him;
hands touched, fingers interlocked; i’ve seen the way he looks at me
like he wants to curl up next to my heartbeat, like another
mellowed down pop song on this dysfunctional radio.
boy, we hurt, we hurt, we hurt.
hell is real, i’ve made love to him
watched the ruin flood bodies over west coast, worst coast
ah. i curled into him curled out of him watched him
curve up and against me like a tide stretched out
and hung on a washing line to dry- oh the sin of breathing and being.
well i told you on the phone today that i live in a closet made of bones
and i am my own skeleton, told you all those tales
about boys who loved boys who loved boys who loved-
i live there.
i dream there.
i d
:icona-girl-named-divine:a-girl-named-divine 93 44
toeing the edge of the rubicon
freshman year of college,
i break the first rule of dorming with someone else:
i touch her stuff. it’s october, and just starting
to get cold. i wear a sweater and a jacket at all times now,
but i’m always caught off guard by the rain.
i don’t watch the weather reports anymore;
this has something to do with
why i am on my roommate’s side of the dorm,
but i do not connect the two.
it takes me an hour. it shouldn’t,
but it does. i stop to look out the window, to examine my hands,
to wonder why they are not shaking.
i stop to write, but i don’t get much farther than
“dear mom and dad” before i give up.
my roommate won’t come home for at least
one more day. i have all the time in the world.
all the time i have left could fit in the palm of my hand,
and there’d still be room for the pills.
the thing is, my roommate gets sick a lot.
chronic migraines, asthma, the works. i watched
her unpack all her pill bottles the first night on ca
:iconmisfitablegrae:MisfitableGrae 49 4
the moment you become more than a one night stand
it’s half gone four in the morning and i should be looking at nothing but the backs of my eyelids
but i can’t bring myself to tear my eyes away from how beautiful you look
with my bed sheets all tangled around your body
and your hair all tangled around your face and your eyelashes brushing your cheek
every time you blink like this will be the last time before you go to sleep,
but our mouths haven’t stopped moving in one way or another since you locked the door for the night,
and the longer you talk about your grandmother's favorite knitting pattern
the more sure i am that it's too late to leave this room without leaving half of me behind
and that scares me more than anything else
and it makes my heart beat faster than it ever has before,
and trust me i've spent enough time hanging around bridges to know
that there’s no way to stop falling once you’ve started,
but i've never seen anyone look so beautiful in the light of the sunrise
so i brush your hair away
:iconmisfitablegrae:MisfitableGrae 48 3
badlands and bleached teeth
your body is no temple,
boy; it's a wasteland.
you are the warring nation -
you're the wishbone weaponry,
hunger as the ammunition.
:iconcounting-vertebrae:counting-vertebrae 62 14
Ocean Adventure V2 :iconmtomsky:mtomsky 711 51


Untitled-5 :iconaditya777:aditya777 6,669 47 I can Fly too :iconyuumei:yuumei 5,364 295 Lady Samurai :iconcorbistiger:Corbistiger 65 16 My other Wing II :iconaiki-ame:aiki-ame 3,576 121 Long Distance :iconp-shinobi:P-Shinobi 3,740 177 Carciphona - Duel :iconshilin:shilin 26,456 878 Strangled Oasis :iconaquasixio:AquaSixio 4,540 443 Come September :iconaquasixio:AquaSixio 4,874 640


1,660 deviations

Every book about biology would tell me my chest
is made of a ribcage, my bones strong
but capable of breaking.
I know that my lungs are what allow me to breathe,
and my feet that make me turn.
But no page from the memory of history would ever tell me
that music is what’ll truly make me hear

and soar
to places even my imagination could never think of.
No classroom would ever teach me
that the scent of rain would take you back
to the life of a person you could have had,
nor will a high score on a test
ever make me see the blood and the sweat
on every brushstroke of a painting.

My lungs would never run out of steam
without love to make it,
the same way my feet would never tiptoe to the stars
without prose and poetry and insanity
whispering in my head.

I am not just skin and a tangle of veins
passing for less than a millennia,
I am also fire and the eye of a storm,
the ruin of a city and the sail of a sunken ship,
I am the sound of a word in a tongue
that will exist when I am gone,
and the lights shall leap from my chest
to join the stars I never tired to look at.
One Way Ticket to La La Land
La La Land is a beautiful movie and made me feel surreal in a world where my feet felt planted on the ground. 
It's been a tough few weeks. I've been dealing with my mental issues and it's not been easy. Reactions from my loved ones and closest friends have been varied. It's all been overwhelming. But surely and slowly, I'm getting better. 

You guys know I don't usually post journals or updates, so this is pretty kind of new-ish.

But there are better news. I have submitted 6 of my poems to Aleola Journal of Poetry and Art and am currently awaiting for their response. I may get rejected, but it was worth a try. To other poets or writers out there who would want to submit their work as well, here is the link:

For those who are wondering, the poems I sent were:

rain, rain, don't go away"To belong to you for an erstwhile;
a million flashbacks for when
we forgot and remembered;
elisions on cut-away smiles
and first sight first loves
because just because.
Planets have always been
more stagnant than stars;
and better apt in phagocytosis.
Now our immensities could fly
from our teeth;  desuetudes
on denouements.
But how're they half a penumbra?
Petrichor hello's not reaching home;
though rain is rising in earnest.
Further and farther
and found and more lost;
the frailty of downpours
is falling too raw.
But I- I stole the sugar on our plenilune;
mellifluous tacendas too dulcet
and too undone 
on overly written palimpsests."
    AcrophobiaThrowing stares on aquariums must be fun;
fins resemble birds well enough.
If you squint and walk on tiptoe,
air quotations could be more than wings.
Trust me.
You’d be lighter than steam.
And with seven continents as your runway,
you can forget about rockets;
the clouds would look like buildings.
Just invite me for a little sightseeing,
because the wrinkles grow on my adrenaline.
Let’s not look down.
There are no kite runners waiting for us.
    This Side of the Moon is DisproportionateI left your scent
on the talons of 
I couldn't trust voices
for safekeeping.
Do I prolong you
with every hyphen
I choke; as if I were pulling
a cord and untying
ink blots?
She never really did bother
with the clean-up.
I counted one
bruises on your eyebrow,
has anyone ever told you
                        you could stop hitting yourself [now?]
The scabs of your travels
to midnight streetlamps
don't even come close to the
psithurism of your laughter.
You are extrasolar
                         please don't drown 
                         as a meteor.
How many hesitations
am I
in the span of eight o
    A Telescope for PolarisThe strands of my percussion strings
turn dull in the sight of
your subconscious bearings.
You are like the hail
who threatened to come;
an itch
I can’t quite place.
And I write letters
to the archers
and the mermaids-
hoping they’d bring me a swallow
to hunt the raven-like insect
whispering nevermore
in the recesses of my hair.
[So far they haven’t replied yet.]
Thus I’ve found
I could distract myself with pastimes
I’ve come to name as habits--
like drinking the tepid water
of other people’s drudgery,
while I ponder on what sorts of poems
you wrote
when she called herself yours.
It must have been quite nice,
while the coffee was newly brewed.
And I see how clouds
could pass for stars some nights;
why cicadas sing
and nightingales don’t.
I see your eyes
and how they see things differently,
how I want them to know
a little part of what they don’t.
And in staring in them
as if I could knit my universe
straw by straw, I’ve reali
    Stars Wish on People TooDefine me when you take swigs
the number of your hair.
The unmoving frames
of your Sunday musings
whisper in caps lock;
they want to be forgotten-
they told me,
like I could save you from myself
I’ve always wondered
what it would be like
to play the piano
with my feet on an acoustic run;
the shadow that isn’t friends
with the light like a body part
I’ve always known,
always had,
but never quite seen.
I sugarcoat myself
hanging by mere fiction,
a pendulum and a metronome
coming home.
What are we but allusions
to the people behind us,
ambivalence to the rivers
that never meet the ocean.
It’s frightening how
we’ve been lost for years
but no one’s come to find us.
Dusk it seems
is the lesser of two evils,
midnight is just too mysterious.
2.54 centimetersI admire the way small letters shout.
How a voice that’s both mine
and isn’t-
touches the skyline of every tear
of every crevice
of every line 
         where my bones and muscles kiss.
I’m an explosion of noises
that’s too much
all at once;
a collection of sundials 
praying for the moon 
with just a cupful of made up constellations
in her pocket. 
The way my feet pirouette
to the sunflakes of summer
assuage the assonance of a sonder
of souls-
and the sillage  of a million laugh lines
are more than enough to make me
Had I known all the songs 
we’ve carved with our clefs
on my fourteenth birthday; 
I’d trade all my blown out candle wax 
for my skin to be papyrus;
and my body -- poesy.

                    I want to look at his blend of colours,


The instructions for submission state that the work to be submitted must not be published anywhere prior. I took 'published' to mean on paper, which is why I still submitted my work. (Is that right, do you think? 030)

The reason for my sending my work to an official entity was something that came to mind randomly. Growing up in the Philippines, with a background for pretty much a normal family, I never thought of becoming a published writer. This was something my mom suggested, and I thought, why not? It also serves as something else to think about while I'm getting better with my personal issues. 

Hope you're having a good day, thanks for reading this post, and stay awesome, you!



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roadkillKitten Featured By Owner Nov 19, 2016
Thanks for the Favourite Star on "The Old Fisherman"
DamaiMikaz Featured By Owner Oct 4, 2016  Hobbyist Digital Artist
Thanks for adding [Inktober] 01 Business to your collections. I'm happy that you like the piece :la:
ViciousGalan Featured By Owner Sep 17, 2016  Hobbyist Writer
Just wanted to voice my appreciation for your works in a general sense. I find myself sucked into the imagery of the metaphors yet the meassages are conveyed very tactfully. I look forward to reading more.
DSteffi Featured By Owner Sep 17, 2016  Student Writer
This means a lot. Thank you very much!
chadwood Featured By Owner Sep 13, 2016   Writer
I know this is long overdue but thank you for swinging by my page and reading!
spoems Featured By Owner Aug 28, 2016   Writer
Thanks for dropping by.
YouInventedMe Featured By Owner Aug 27, 2016   Writer
Thanks for the +fav on human time capsule!
TheEvilOvelords Featured By Owner Aug 12, 2016  Hobbyist General Artist
Thanks for joining our group! :D
May we be graced by your presence for a long time :meow:

Sakurai Amy
Founder of The Writer Gang
BlackBowfin Featured By Owner Jul 24, 2016  Hobbyist Writer
Hey there, friend.  Thank you much for the support!  :highfive:
vvlpes Featured By Owner Jul 20, 2016  Student Writer
Thank you so much for the watch and faves! :heart:
Have a wonderful day/night!
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